


the flowers, they are singing

by peculiar_mademoiselle



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fill, fem!Legolas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:37:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peculiar_mademoiselle/pseuds/peculiar_mademoiselle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from this prompt http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=21730283#t21730283</p><p>"at dawn she walks from Imladris, the only maiden within a company of men, her breasts bound and the insults of a disgruntled dwarf within her ears. although her chest is compressed and her hair strangely braided, she has never felt more free."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> from this prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=21730283#t21730283
> 
> "Gimme bbfem!Legolas being adorable and wrapping Thranduil around her little finger.
> 
> Papabear!Thranduil picking on Gimli.
> 
> Unimpressed father-in-law!Thranduil wearing his bitch face but turning into a pile of goo for his daughter."

Thranduil’s daughter is an odd one – there are some snide mutters which speak of the effects of the lack of a mother, while others whisper of an unfortunate bump to the head following birth. But whatever the reason, the elfling, with features too large and too expressive for her tiny face swirls around the kingdom like a miniscule hurricane, often leaving excitement and trouble in her wake.

Her father only watches his daughter with wise cerulean eyes, seemingly unresponsive to her tugging on his robes and her incessant pleas for his attention – “Ada! Ada!”

Although Galion would drunkenly swear one night that once he had actually seen the Elvenking’s lips twitch upward in the barest hint of a smile when his daughter fastened a lilac flower within a lock of his flaxen hair.

* * *

 

It’s hundreds of years later, yet feels like mere seconds when Thranduil sees his daughter off to Rivendell, her face is blank and solemn as she formally bids farewell to her king, bowing so low that the hood of her travel cloak shifts slightly upon the long lines of her back. She straightens swiftly, and as she’s turning to leave the older Elf is hit with a surge of dread, reminiscent of a blow to the chest. He suddenly has a horrifying feeling that this will be last time he sees his child in some time. She does not struggle when he suddenly embraces her, and he does not respond when she drops a soft kiss upon his brow.

She’s gone a moment later, the distinct lay of the leaves that were nudged by her brown boots the only evidence she’d been there at all. Thranduil gazes at them until they are shifted by the wind.

* * *

 

She lies. She claims to be the son of the Elvenking, eager to take part in the quest, but wary of the beliefs of her companions – she knows little of the Periannath, is aware of some of the odd customs of men regarding women and warfare, and has neither seen nor heard of a dwarrowdam in all her long life. The Lord Elrond only raises an eyebrow at her proclamation, and later that night she finds a wad of bandages waiting for her in her chambers.

At dawn she walks from Imladris, the only maiden within a Company of men, her breasts bound and the insults of a disgruntled dwarf within her ears. Although her chest is compressed and her hair strangely braided, she has never felt more free.

* * *

After Gandalf falls there is a tightness about her heart that has nothing to do with her bindings, and such an out powering of mortal grief washes over her like icy water, leaving her both cold and vulnerable. She observes the dwarf then, desperate for distraction from her own addled head, his grief is all the more potent – mourning not just their leader but his kin also. His tears are like the gems his people so covet, gleaming on his ruddy face.

She resolves to observe him for the journey to Lothlorien, and suddenly notices the strength of his arms, the openness of his eyes and the wonder that is his thick red hair (in fact made up of strands of russet and gold and a myriad of shades in between). When he begins attempting to comfort the heartbroken Halflings there is a different feeling within her, and it brings the first flicker of a smile to her face since the wizard was lost.

Approaching him in the Golden Wood takes more courage than she would like to admit; she wears a long and loose pale blue cloak and holds it over her body, and presses a slender hand to his unyielding shoulder. They slip into conversation remarkably easily, the still fresh grief and the sudden realisation of the sheer amount of danger they are in allowing for the relinquishing of Age old grudges with little difficulty.

He tells her of Erebor, of his family, tells her perhaps more than she should know, and she in turn entertains him with tales of her home in the days before it was Mirkwood.

Hours pass, as swiftly as fine earth through fingers, and as the sorrowful lament of the Elves appears to reach its height she reveals her largest secret, allowing the cloak to fall from her shoulders and revealing the soft silvery dress beneath, her pale bosom more than evident. She closes her eyes and waits, breath caught in trepidation when she feels gentle yet calloused hands draping her cloak back on.

“Your secret’s safe with me, lass,”

Legolas smiles and strokes his bumpy cheek. If her hand lingers too long, neither of them says a word.

* * *

She is at Helms Deep, her hair streaked with dirt, her hands slick with orc blood and _she cannot find Gimli._

Her pulse echoes in her ears as she frantically battles through the beasts, her eyes desperately searching for a hint of russet hair and listening for a bellowing dwarven war cry. She picks up nothing and fights on.

When she finds him, blood pouring from a cut to his head, yet joking about their competition and rattling on about caves, of all things, she collapses onto him like a marionette with its strings cut, relief and joy making her heart so full, that it reaches up and moves her forehead to his. His babbling halts, but he mirrors her delighted grin, noting that he has never seen such an expression on an elf before. It’s beautiful. She..is beautiful.


	2. Chapter 2

For the rest of the quest they are inseparable – Legolas is a constant stream of chatter and song while they travel, and Gimli is a constant warm weight against her unyielding back. Her presence comforts him on the Paths of the Dead, and in turn his presence anchors her after she hears the gulls. It’s a time of strife still - of fighting and hoping and longing, but eventually it is done. The ring is cast back into the fire and the enemy vanquished. And suddenly everything is different.

At Aragorn’s coronation the Princess of the Greenwood presents herself in her usual formal wear. A pale blue dress made from a soft and shimmery fabric, her long yellow hair intricately braided and slightly waved beneath a delicate silver headdress. Aragorn doesn’t even react, and she suddenly realises he probably knew from the start, but the Hobbits faces are a picture and she cannot control the bell-like giggle that escapes her mouth. Her eyes find Gimli (dressed in his regal garments – a deep royal blue and gold, red hair and beard also braided) and they exchange a secret smile, applauding along with the crowd.

He seeks her out that night; she vanished silently from the great feast a while ago, and the dwarf is confused to see her sat in a quiet courtyard, staring at the distant stars. Her hair is free from it’s elaborate hold and moving around her achingly beautiful face with the nights breeze. If she hears him approach she doesn’t acknowledge it, but he sits himself down beside her anyway, his feet dangling a foot above the ground from the stone bench.

“The quest we set out to do is finished, yet I feel there is still much I must do,” her voice is soft in the blue of the night, and her words dissipate into the silence. Yet they set Gimli’s heart hammering, and his tongue suddenly feels useless within his mouth.

“...And what would you do?” comes his overly gruff reply.

She turns to him then, ancient cerulean eyes searching his flushed face beseechingly, “I would give my love to the one who deserves it,”

He doesn’t know who moves first, but suddenly his hand is fisted in her silky hair, silvered by the starlight, and her sweet cupid’s bow mouth is on his, his beard tickling her chin and cheeks, her arms around his firm body. _“Oh meleth nîn,"_

They retire to their separate rooms but a few hours later, both light on their respective feet (Legolas even lighter than normal – she fears she may even float away). But Gimli climbs into bed and begins to think that no matter the obstacles facing them – their differing longevities, their families and people, he must honour her the proper way. He climbs back out of bed and begins to work. With his own hair beads he constructs a simple clasp in the shape of a butterfly, green and blue gems on it’s wings.

Exhausted but determined, he knocks on her door the next morning, and both presents his gift and plights his troth. Looking up at her he becomes aware that Elves, however in control, are not unflappable. Her mouth falls open and snaps shut intermittently, and a dusting of pale pink accents her high cheekbones. After a few tense minutes a smile breaks across her face, like the sun breaking through the clouds, and she takes the clasp in her pale hand.

“Would you mind putting it in for me?”

* * *

 

They ride into the Greenwood together, back in travelling gear. Gimli thinks Legolas will always look more at home in her simple green cloak than her finery, and spends the journey both talking to his love and admiring his handiwork amongst her tresses of golden hair.

As they are let through the gates however, they are met with an odd sight. The usually serene Elvenking is running – with all his usual elven grace – but still _running_ toward his daughter. He envelopes her in his arms, muttering words of hushed Sindarin into her soft hair. The dwarf looks on in shock, this is not elf he has heard tales of, with eyes of ice and a heart of marble, in fact Thranduil appears to trembling about his child’s frame.

He goes stock still when he notices her hair though, twisted into a thick dwarven braid, held by a heavy jewelled clasp. His eyes widen when he notices Gimli, and his face contorts into a sneer. Disentangling himself from Legolas he takes a deep breath and invites them both to a private audience.

Once in an empty throne room his calm facade cracks – he manages to bite out “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” without keeling over, but he breaks off for a particularly loud nasal inhalation.

Gimli opens his mouth to speak, but his love beats him to it, “I love him Ada, I can make no apology for it. I have looked death in the face and my only thought has been of him, his bravery and valour and companionship. He is mine and I am his, and nothing you do or say can undo that.” Her eyes flash as her chin tilts up with pride, one arm fisting up at her side, the other clasping her beloved’s shoulder.

Thranduil reels back, his face flushing a dangerous purple, but he studies Gimli for the first time. The frizzy red beard, the ruddy face and the muddy boots. His face twists, like he’s sucking on something sour and he swings back round to his child, the argument slipping into their mother tongue. The dwarf can only watch uncomprehending as Father and daughter become more and more heated in their exchange.

After far too long the tone of the argument suddenly changes, from rage to misery, and for one nightmarish moment Gimli thinks Thranduil-king is actually going to weep, but instead he suddenly dismisses them with wave of his regal hand, falling back onto his throne, the other one covering his eyes.

Only after they’ve passed from the realm does his One weep, glittering tears sliding down her smooth cheeks. The dwarf takes great care in kissing them away.

The reception they receive in Erebor is no more positive at first, but Glóin takes one look at his iron-willed son and his unsure looking love and realises that there’s no dissuading this.

They’re planning weddings within a few hours.

Of her wedding day Legolas asks for little, but she does quietly request one night that they do it just outside the Mountain. Her dwarf laughs heartily, assuring her that he had never expected her to marry without the sun present.

The news of the ensuing marriage of the daughter of Thranduil and a dwarf of Durin’s line travels like wildfire, so much so that they even receive a note of congratulations from the Lady Galadriel herself. Legolas laughs at how reverently Gimli holds it, and ignores the pang in her chest as yet again no word comes from her Father.

On the day of the wedding, a group of dwarrowdams are helping her into her silver dress, it falls like a waterfall, as straight as her hair, which is free except a single braid tied with her clasp.

She is oblivious to all else when she kneels down and takes Gimli’s calloused hands in hers, her dainty mouth pronouncing clunky oaths of Khuzdul – when it is done they share warm smiles and a single kiss, before standing and facing the applauding crowd. At the front are Gimli’s family and friends, then there are several rows of other vaguely supportive dwarrows.

And standing at the back, in all his finery, is her Father.

He looks impassive, as always, but his eyes are shining with some unidentifiable emotion. She approaches him as if in a dream, breaking away from the crowd of well-wishers and stopping but a foot in front of him.

“I...” he stops, closes his eyes and tries again, “I cannot pretend that I understand...or that I am happy. But I am your Ada, and there is no force in existence that can alter that fact. And if this dwarf is as worthy as you say he is, I am willing to try and tolerate this.” His admission seems to cause him great pain to say, but his arms are suddenly full of his daughter and so he forgets all about it and pushes his lips to the crown of her head.

* * *

 

A few months later she sits at a feasting table in her old home, her husband on one side, and her Father on the other. Her head is full of dreams of an unpredictable future and her heart is full of all she loves.

She is content.

All she needs now is a simple way of telling those she loves that she is with child. She eyes both of them, so utterly different; yet both clinging to one of her arms, and decides that her pronouncement can wait for another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyou to everybody!
> 
> comments and kudos are really appreciated x

**Author's Note:**

> (ADDED: this is very cheeky of me but i'm in a lot of financial trouble at the moment. I could potentially end up homeless - please help me if you can, anything would be appreciated. here's the link www.gofundme.com/2g6ge8xw ) Thank-you in advance!


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